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It’s been quite a journey, but Leda is now finished at last! It’ll remain on Wattpad while I’m editing it, and will be available on Amazon in the new year.
So…if you like any of the following: lesbian characters, duelling, windswept fortresses, tyrannical emperors, swashbuckling adventure, high jinks on the high seas, moorland, bisexual princes, hairy highlanders, more moorland, battle scenes, devious thieves, political coups, mystery, excitement, anguish and triumph…then there might just be something in it for you!

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So this is a book that hits the ground running and never really stops, steering the reader through a labyrinth of twists and cliff hangers at breakneck speed. If you’re up for Bond style action with a female main character then this is the book for you. LJ is a smart, wired, up-for-anything student who finds herself in hot water when it turns out her father’s will is to be read out, leaving her with just a few hours to get out of the UK and make it to New York. She’s paired off against ever resourceful superspy Mark Grant, with the chemistry between the two throwing an extra dose of jeopardy into what is already an edge-of-your-seat plot. It’s the thrills, quick fire dialogue and superb pacing which make this a must read this summer.

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I was just writing this scene and realised it works quite well as a stand alone piece. Basically it’s a monologue told from the perspective of Castor, chief villain of the story as he is crowned Emperor. But I think it also reveals some of the major tensions in ‘Leda’. I’m serialising the novel over on Wattpad at the moment. The first parts are available on Amazon.

Around him went the priests, swinging thuribles of incense on long brass chains. On the verge of choking, Castor squeezed his lips together, refusing to submit to weakness at this most symbolic of moments. His eyes watered, he held his breath…it was no good. Air starved, he glared up at the temple guardian who circled the throne once more, his beard coiling to his waist, a long, brown swathe of plaited hair snaking down his back. The man’s eyes were sharp with zeal, his voice reverent and low as he muttered incantations, prayers to the spirits, Diodiné now seated amongst their highest ranks. But it was no good appealing to a fanatic like the guardian, Castor realised. Without the incense and invocations, without the vigils, the holy water and oil, Castor could not be Emperor. All of it mattered – every last detail of this painful process. For there could be no question – no single doubt in the people’s minds that he was their ruler.

This was the moment which would end all the gossip, the slander and the lies. For he, and only he was the rightful heir to Colvé, the North, the eastern seaboard, Brennac and the vales and mountains of the West. Even Yegdan and those barbarians would come to understand that soon. He, Castor, third of…it was no good. He had to breathe. He couldn’t stand it any longer. If only that idiot would give up his droning for a moment, would put his stinking incense aside…but it was too late.

Castor coughed into the back of his gloved hand, and found he could not stop. Tears ran down his face, coursing a path through the white powder on his cheeks. When he sealed his lips, his lungs seemed to spasm and flare, birthing yet another cough, until he was crumpled and wheezing, the wide eyes of the court turned upon him, and the temple guardian apparently oblivious to the torture he was inducing in his Emperor.

At last the droning stopped, the incense was set aside and the air began to clear, revealing Castor bent double, shaking and gasping for breath. Once his coughing fit had subsided, he managed at last to sit upright. Was somebody laughing? He listened hard. The priest droned on, his words echoing out into the temple’s stillness. Castor was almost certain now that his future subjects were smirking at him. But who? Who amongst this throng of people could he trust? Who could he not?

To the fore sat his immediate family – his mother, too mad to even care if he were emperor or ironmonger now. She stared lifelessly ahead, her eyes a pale, blank blue, her lips curled up into their habitual smile as she whispered to herself in half remembered words. And his aunt Evelia, fat and sweaty in her black mourning garb. An old traitress who’d hung on her dead husband’s every word and had whispered against Castor in the corridors of the palace with the old court cronies she called her friends. Soon to join Diodiné, if there were any justice. No wonder her private guard accompanied her everywhere – that Brighthair woman – freakishly tall and powerful of build, with cropped auburn hair and a sword swinging from her belt. A former duellist, he’d heard, now retired into court livery and a handsome salary drawn right out of the palace coffers. Well, she’d be losing both once the old bitch had gone the way of her husband.
And beside them, Josen. Could he trust his brother? Did he trust his brother? Castor prickled with unease. Of course he didn’t. Trust a man who befriended scoundrels like Degaré of Dal Reniac and his two thieving accomplices? Who spent his nights amongst the dregs of Riverside stirring up who knew what trouble, and his days fraternising with Senators who ought to know their place? And of course, loved by every woman from the palace to the city walls for his lazy good looks: that head of thick golden hair and those sky blue eyes which spoke charm but hinted deceit. But Josen would know that even a Prince’s neck would fit a noose given enough time.

The guardian was returning, this time with a casket of holy oil. Castor closed his eyes. Just one more ritual; one step closer to confirmation of his absolute power, a power invested in him by the ancestors themselves. He felt the guardian’s thumb slide down his forehead, slick and warm, leaving a trail of the precious substance which dripped down onto the tip of his nose. That added to his discomfort. He wanted to wipe it away, but knew that to do so would be to annul the entire ceremony. And there could be no risk of that – no risk of uncertainty. Not when so many of those now gathered in the temple today had once questioned Castor’s right to the throne.

He opened his eyes, picking them out one by one. There, for example, half hidden behind that column was the Senator, Tobiac Treniac, who had championed the senate’s rule in the absence of a direct imperial heir. Half his thin, rat-like face was shielded by stone, the other watchful – nervous. And with good reason. And then towards the rear of the temple was the Westerner, Lord Roc, who had declared that his own son had a greater claim to the throne than Castor – some nonsense about imperial forebears. Surely, Castor thought with a grim, inward laugh, a headless son lacks all legitimacy? And then…

His eyes fell upon a strange group, also huddled like conspirators at the back. He made out the frail frame of Senator Marc Remigius, his gnarled old hands wrapped around an intricately carved walking stick. Remigius had been Castellan of Dal Reniac for some time, until the city could be handed over to…Castor started. That must be her. He hadn’t laid eyes on her for, perhaps twelve years. She had been a child then. Now, she was a woman grown – weather tanned like other northerners, but slim and lithe as a young colt or cat. A mass of dark curls tumbled down her back, and her grey eyes were sharp and intelligent. Well, her father had been Bruno Nérac after all: a true descendant of emperors, not like Roc’s jumped up little pretender. Was it possible that her grandfather had been a mere merchant? For there was nothing workaday or vulgar about Leda Nérac. She was an aristocrat – a thoroughbred. Blue of blood and … his pulse quickening, his gaze fell on the two other members of her little entourage. That must be the mother – a good looking woman too. Waifish in build, she wore a simple dress of green satin, her hair threaded through an intricate series of loops and plaits. His attention slid from Meracad to Leda and back again. Wife? Mother-in-law? would it…could it work? Had Josen been right after all? In one brilliant move to control the North, to bring it to heel without the need or expense of war and to suppress all those doubts? For surely no one, not even Roc would dare question his own claim to the throne when it was tied to the Nérac dynasty. No one except…

She was there too. For that must be her. What other woman would have the arrogance to attend her coronation in such attire? He clenched and flexed his fingers. Bastard born and dressed like a man in a great coat and trousers, her hair tied back to reveal a gaunt, almost hawkish face.

The descendant of a rebel and a known whore. A woman who would certainly corrupt Leda Nérac if she had not done so already, who might even seek, through Nérac, her own influence and power. Diodiné had sought to marry Leda to Castor when she came of age, but Hannac and her ‘wife’ had opposed it. How dare they! And how could his Uncle have backed down? Another example of his weakness.

The plaited fool was back again, this time bearing the crown. Once again, Castor closed his eyes. This time, no one would force him to remove that golden circlet from his head, no one could take this honour from him. He rose, the court rising with him, cheering and applauding. He looked over their heads and caught Hannac’s eye. With arms folded and insolent eyes, she stared back. No one.

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A short extract from Leda, book three in The Duellist series. Hal is haunted by a series of terrifying dreams and discovers that the real enemy lies within, not without.

That dream again. This time, Hal found herself buried beneath the streets of Colvé, a crowd of people thundering over the cobbles above her head. The ground shook to the thump of their feet, the earth above her head muted the chaos of their voices. And, of course, she could not move. She twisted, squirmed, moaned, her mouth filling with dirt. She was choking: every breath desperate, painful and exhausting.

“Hal!” From somewhere above her came Meracad’s faint, muffled voice. Struggling, Hal realised she could no longer open her mouth, that her arms were pinioned to her sides.

“Hal!” Meracad’s voice was louder now, but still too far away for help. They had lost each other. Perhaps, Hal thought, she had died already – that Meracad was calling to her from beyond the grave. That made her weep.

“Hal!”

She woke with a gasp, a sudden rush of damp night air filling her lungs, the room swinging and swaying around her head. Hal sucked in every breath with hunger, her body drenched in a cold film of sweat and every muscle and tendon, every last fibre of her being shaking. She sat, drew her knees up to her chest, and buried her face in her hands.

“Hal, what is it…what do you dream of?” Meracad slipped her arms around Hal’s shoulders and drew her close. Her skin smelt warm and carried a light, honeyed fragrance. Hal surrendered to her embrace.

“I dream…” but how could she explain the thud of feet above her head, the weight of earth as it crushed and paralysed, starving her of breath? For in truth, that was never the worst part of the dream at all. “I dream that you’ve gone,” she whispered at last.

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Part Three of ‘Girl under the Gun’ by Rob May sees L.J. and Grant leave New York and head for safety in a deviously acquired Ford Mustang. What follows is more great action, involving car chases, treasure hunts and slow burning romance. Lots of dark humour, Bond style repartee and the cliff hanger at the end was pure brilliance. Can’t wait for the next part!

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LJ and Grant arrrive in New York just in time to hear her father’s will read. What follows is a wild, high octane adventure set in New York, fighting off potential terrorists on the way, encountering long lost family members and code cracking as they go. And on top of that, there’s the whole smouldering chemistry of will they, won’t they to enjoy. Strongly recommended.

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A beautiful anthology of shorts – all of which explore the concept of loss. These are stories that will haunt the imagination and the memory long after you’ve finished reading, spanning an emotional scale which stretches from the poignant to the grief-stricken. Many address the heart-break of bereavement, or the break-down of relationships. Others steer into fantasy or whimsy – I’m thinking here, for example, of Jill Hand’s wonderful narrative, “The Shop of Lost Things.”
Really enjoyed this and hoping to read more from the creative people of Thinkerbeat in the future.